Page 60

CAL

The truck hums low beneath me. I tighten my grip on the steering wheel—knuckles whitening, breath slow—just to feel the pressure, to remind myself I’m still here, still in control.

Dark road. No traffic. City lights rising slowly over the horizon, scattered and muted by distance.

I keep the windows up. Not for warmth. Just to keep the silence close.

The duffel sits on the passenger seat.

Zipped. Weighted.

Everything I need is in it.

And still—I keep glancing at the glove box.

Where the compass rests.

I don’t touch it.

Not yet.

Not because I’m afraid.

But because she touched it last. Her fingerprint’s probably still on the rim—maybe a faint smudge, or the trace of her lavender hand cream. It’s enough to steady me.

And that’s enough to carry me a little longer.

St. John’s rises ahead, half-asleep.

Empty streets and dim shopfronts. The harbor lights blinking in quiet intervals like a pulse I know too well.

The yacht is out past the narrows. Not visible from land. Anchored in waters so cold they swallow sound. No transponder. No flag.

No witnesses.

He thinks he’s a ghost king. Thinks distance and darkness make him untouchable. But I’ve tracked every supply drop, mapped every tide shift, timed the gaps in his silence. He doesn’t know how close I already am.

He doesn’t know I’ve already buried the man I used to be. Doesn’t know I’ve already chosen my grave—and it isn’t out there. It’s here. Inside this body that still holds her warmth. This silence that still holds her voice.

I love you. I’ll be back.

The road winds lower. The docks draw near. I park in the shadow, kill the engine, and leave the keys in my pocket. I don’t look back. I never do. But I see her anyway—curled on the couch in my flannel, porch light glowing behind her. A promise waiting to be kept.

The harbor lies still. No motion. Just the slow shift of tide against hulls, the faint groan of wood and line.

The yacht is there. Far enough out to be unseen from the docks. Close enough for a small craft to reach. But there’s no launch. No noise. No guards on shore. Just the dark shape on the water, lit faintly by underdeck glow. Rich. Sleek. Too quiet.

He’s out there. Watching. Just like I am.

I slide from the truck.

No wetsuit yet. Not tonight.

Tonight is for surveillance.

I move along the edge of the docks, slow and soundless. Avoid the gravel. Stick to pavement. My boots don’t echo—they never have. My shadow stretches long in the moonlight, flickering as I pass beneath the gaps in the dock lights. Each breath fogs faintly in the air before vanishing.

The wind off the water cuts through my jacket. I don’t flinch.

I make it to the edge of the marina where the streetlights thin and the fence line breaks into wild brush. Slip through. Down to the shore.

There’s a spot I know—out past the outer jetty, where the view opens just enough to see the harbor mouth.

I crouch low.

There. The yacht. Just a silhouette now. No movement. No sound. A floating kingdom of ghosts.

I stay until my legs go numb, until the tide shifts again, until I’m sure.

Tomorrow night, I’ll move.

But not tonight.

Tonight, I breathe. And wait. And remember her arms around me like a second skin.

I make it back to the truck just before midnight. The cold is in my bones, but I don’t notice it. Not really.

I close the door soft, strip off the gloves, and reach for the phone in the side pocket of the duffel. No hesitation. She’s already there at the top of my messages.

I type slowly.

Still quiet out here. Nothing reckless, I promise. I keep you in my mind the whole time. Every step. Every breath. And I’ll be home soon.

Did you eat something? And stay in?

Tell me you wore socks, too.

I send it.

Then just… sit.

The truck’s cab fogs slowly from my breath. The night feels heavy outside the windows, like it’s waiting for something too.

My fingers hover.

Then I type again.

I love you, Emmy.

Sleep in our bed tonight. Keep the light on.

I set the phone down.

Don’t turn it off.

Don’t move.

I just close my eyes for a moment and picture her there. Small and quiet in the flannel I left behind, curled around the dogs, the firelight brushing the edge of her cheek.

She’s waiting.

And as soon as I incinerate this fleeting part of my past, I’m coming home.

EMMY

The fire’s down to embers.

I haven’t moved in over an hour.

The dogs are asleep, warm against my legs. The porch light is still on. The flannel still clings to my shoulders.

I haven’t cried again.

But I haven’t really breathed, either.

Until I feel the soft buzz of my phone against my thigh. I fumble for it faster than I mean to. Tap the screen.

His name. Twice.

I open the first.

A shaky breath escapes me—part laugh, part ache. I press the back of my hand to my mouth, eyes stinging, trying to keep it all in even as my chest eases.

Asking if I ate. If I'm wearing socks, while he's out there, somewhere dark, alone. That nearly breaks me.

And the second one… that one unravels me. Not in a messy way. Not all at once.

Just slow. Like warmth working its way into cold fingers.

Like slipping into his flannel straight from the dryer—soft, worn, and waiting.

I press the screen to my chest.

Close my eyes.

Whisper it into the silence.

“I love you too.”

Then I rise, gently shifting the dogs as I go.

Blow out the last of the candles.

Turn down the covers.

And curl into the bed that still smells like him.

I blink back the warmth behind my eyes and open his message again.

Reread it, more than once.

My thumbs move carefully across the screen, like I’m holding something delicate.

Because I am. The phone is warm in my hands, the light from the screen fading gently across the quilt.

I stayed in. Wore socks. Made toast with marmalade, even though I wasn’t really hungry.

Cleo let me share the blanket. Luca snored.

I pause before typing out what’s most important.

Are you being safe? Really?

Please don’t answer if it’s not safe to.

I love you too, Cal.

So much.

Come back to me.

I hit send.

Then lay the phone beside my pillow, turn toward the open space in the bed, where the blankets are still slightly rumpled from this morning. Where his arm should be. I press my cheek into the sheet and breathe deep.

The porch light stays on.

So does my phone. I tuck it beside me on the pillow and curl in tighter beneath the quilt.

The fire’s nothing but a faint glow now.

And I’m just starting to drift—eyes heavy, body finally softening into the sheets—

When the screen lights up.

One more message.

I reach for it with a sleepy hand, blink hard, and read:

I am.

Goodnight, sweet girl. Get some rest.

A breath leaves me.

Deep. Full. Steady for the first time all night.

I let the phone fall gently beside me and turn into the pillow.

And whisper it to the dark.

“Goodnight, Daddy.”

A soft breath leaves me, loosening something in my chest. My shoulders sink deeper into the mattress, muscles unwinding.

Then let go.

Let sleep come.

Wrapped in the hush of his voice, even from far away.

Silence, warm and disorienting, settles over me. For a moment, it doesn’t register. The bed is warm, the blanket heavy. Luca curled along my back, snoring faintly into my spine.

But the space beside me is still empty.

And that’s when I remember.

My hand reaches for my phone before I’m fully conscious. The screen lights up under my fingertips. No new messages. No missed calls.

Just the last thing he sent.

I am.

Goodnight, sweet girl. Get some rest.

I breathe it in like a prayer.

Then rise. The morning passes quietly. I feed the dogs.

Slice bread with trembling hands. The toaster clicks loud in the quiet.

I wait for the pop, then spread butter slowly, watching it melt into every ridge.

Light the fire and answer two of Cal’s check-in rules by noon.

I don’t go outside. Not once, not even when Luca noses the door and glances back at me like he’s asking.

The porch light spills a narrow glow over the doorway. I’m careful to keep the door cracked just enough to clip Luca’s tether.

He waits, patient as always, tail low but steady.

I kneel to fasten the clip.

And that’s when Cleo darts through the gap.

Fast.

So fast I don’t even hear her paws. Just the blur of movement in the corner of my eye. A flash of pale fur vanishing into the dark edges of the woods.

“Cleo!”

My voice breaks in the middle. It’s not loud, but strangled. Thin.

I freeze for a beat. Stay inside, Cal said. Use the tethers. Don’t go out.

But my body moves before my mind can catch it.

Barefoot. No coat. No thought.

Just Cleo.

And fear carries me out into the dusk.

Through damp brush and the hush of trees. The light disappears almost instantly behind me. The forest wraps around me like breath I can’t quite catch. Cold air clings to my skin. Leaves slap against my shins. My breath burns in my throat and clouds the path behind me.

“Cleo!”

My voice trembles through the underbrush.

She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t bark. Doesn’t cry.

My feet slip on wet roots, and my heart beats like a drum in my ears, drowning everything else.

Then—an impossibly tall shadow looms ahead.

I stop. Skid to a breathless halt, lungs burning, feet half-sunken into the soft earth.

Because he’s there.

The Watcher.

Still as stone.

Shadowed by the trees. Moonlight cuts the shape of his shoulders, but his face stays blurred, swallowed by the hush of branches.

But I see her.

Cleo.

Tucked into the crook of his arm like she’s been there the whole time.

She’s calm. Blinking. Unhurt. Her ears twitch once, like this is normal.

I stumble backward, knees giving, and I land hard on the forest floor, a yelp catching in my throat.

The Watcher doesn’t move.

He doesn’t look angry.

But he doesn’t look anything.

Just a blank mask beneath the hush of trees.

I scramble up on shaky hands, arms already reaching. My knees sting where they hit the ground, but I barely notice. My voice comes out fractured.